


of gold and glory

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Gift Giving, M/M, Post-Canon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, not explicitly christmas but in the holiday spirit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28122138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: Every year, Thomas and Francis holiday in Portsmouth.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 19
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	of gold and glory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crowleysheiress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowleysheiress/gifts).



> for the terror bingo prompt **anniversary**

> _How then am I so different from the first men through this way?_
> 
> _Like them, I left a settled life, I threw it all away._
> 
> _To seek a Northwest Passage at the call of many men_
> 
> _To find there but the road back home again._
> 
> — "Northwest Passage", Stan Rogers

⚓⚓⚓

For Thomas, the aromas of a bustling dockyard are sweeter than perfume and incense, and he anticipates that the most. Francis teases him for such an odd penchant (‘ah, yes, nothing much like the titillating stench of fish and piss’), but for all his grousing, he also looks forward to their yearly holiday in Portsmouth and the walk along the ocean.

The city itself is quiet, most decent folks squirreling away into the warmth of their parlors, but the closer they draw to the docks, the sights and sounds are as raucous as summertime.

Thomas drinks in the scenery with pleasure. Ships of all shapes and sizes share space in the water, tethered to the various docks or anchored in the bay. He hobbles along the promenade that frames the outer edge of the port, careful to slot the tip of his cane onto flat portions of pavement, avoiding any patches slick from yesterday’s rain. 

Francis walks a respectful distance behind him, hands folded behind his back. It has been years since he offered Thomas assistance walking here. For that, Thomas thinks he may love Francis very much. Anywhere else, he would accept Francis’ arm or elbow, but in Portsmouth, this is the singular occasion where Thomas tries his hand at recreating a youth long since slipped from his fingers.

It is a wonderfully cheerful day despite the chill in the air. Yesterday, the sky had done nothing but drizzle. Francis had asked Thomas if he wanted to postpone their visit.

“No,” Thomas had interjected, perhaps a bit too forcefully. He paused to soften his tone, to placate the sudden frown growing on Francis’ face. “No, I would still like to go tomorrow. Whatever the weather. Please.”

And came the much repeated phrase: “Of course, Thomas. Whatever you wish.”

At times, Thomas feels guilty for how he can beguile Francis into doing things his way, but their southerly trip has become something of a tradition. He would be heartbroken to skip any part of it.

But he needn’t be concerned with any doubts. When he reaches the railing at the end, Francis is by his shoulder with a serene smile on his face, his eyes locked on Thomas rather than the panoply of ships in the port. Closest to them is a sleek little sloop with her sails furled and the men on her narrow deck tarring a crack in her mast. One of the boys notices Thomas watching, and he raises his cap at him.

Chuckling, Thomas waves back to which the boy on deck grins and gives him a salute with his cap before slapping it back onto his flattened blond curls.

“Heavens, he can’t be much older than twelve,” he murmurs.

“Hard to think we were ever that young,” Francis says.

Thomas shakes his head, giving Francis a sidelong grin. “Well, I certainly hadn’t a mind to be prancing about on deck, sunburnt and shoeless, when I was his age.”

“Different ambitions, then?”

Thomas hums. “Perhaps.”

They lapse into silence, although the surrounding dock is far from quiet: a whistle sounding from a boatswain, sailors yelling as they clamber over rigging and along yardarms, the metallic clanging of a bell, the slapping of water against the embankment, the shrieking of gulls overhead. 

Thomas sets his cane aside, resting both hands on the chain separating him from the murky water below. He closes his eyes, inhaling the salt and brine. It is so easy to fall into a daydream where he still walks the wooden deck of _Terror_ or even _Racer_ , when his memory can travel that far back. He leans forward, feeling the sun on his face and the nip in the breeze as it catches his collar and his hair, tugging black and silver strands into his face.

With a small huff, he fixes his fringe and opens his eyes. Francis slots the handle of the cane back into his palm, briefly touching the small of his back before resuming the usual polite distance. Thomas peeks at him from the corner of his eye, but Francis is facing forward, standing as tall and proud as he ever has.

(‘You look well for your age. How is it that you’ve kept your youth, Francis?’ Francis always laughs to hide his discomfort, his eyes usually straying along the salt-and-pepper whiskers Thomas has grown to mask the scarring on his face. ‘That is nonsense, Thomas. I still have upward of two and twenty on you.’)

“Do you miss it?” Francis asks him.

The question jars Thomas from his memories. His face colors when he realizes he was mumbling the words of the conversation rattling in his head. Francis’ hand nudges against his. Thomas shakes his head and smiles.

“Only sometimes,” he says, though a thought alights in his head, and he gives Francis a shrewd look; “Do you?”

Francis’ smile does not falter, but his shoulders tense. His jaw works as though he is feeling the shape of the words before he speaks them. His eyes are fixed on a frigate anchored a fair distance from the port, its gold and black paint gleaming in the sunlight, its sails as large and bright as clouds.

“I miss it the way a man might long for a hearty meal, an old lover.” His coat brushes against Thomas as he inches ever closer. “A good drink. But it doesn’t have the same draw anymore, does it?”

Thomas regards Francis when something in his words hints at a deeper melancholy, but there is no frown on his face, no trace of weariness. The sun glints off his pale hair and has bestowed upon his cheeks a ruddy glow. His eyes crinkle when he catches Thomas staring.

He cannot quite bring himself to return the smile, but satisfied to find no faults in Francis’ happiness, he turns back to the port. He watches the sailors scramble along the frigate, far enough away that they appear no larger than an illustration in a children’s book. They hoist the anchor and adjust her sails, the canvas billowing as the wind catches, slowly guiding the ship out to sea.

Francis’ hand pauses on his back again, the touch light as a feather. Thomas starts, realizing how far the sun has traveled across the sky. The sloop beneath them is void of all activity, and the breeze coming off the water has grown stronger, the chill sharper.

“Let’s head back now, Thomas.”

⚓⚓⚓

At the hotel, they take supper in their room, which suits Thomas fine. The room is old but tidy, and with the fire roaring in the small hearth, some of the ache finally leaves his legs. He dresses down to more comfortable clothes, resting his socked feet in Francis’ lap as they take slow bites of stew, dipping thick slices of bread into the broth.

Midway through their meal, Francis sets aside his spoon. “I have a surprise for you, Thomas.”

Thomas looks at Francis, curiosity plain on his face. He lifts his feet off him and watches as he crosses the room to the bureau between the two beds. (Both pristine, per Thomas’ standards, but only one holding the distinct scent of either man as they share the narrow space and single pillow as though they were decades younger and tucked into a berth at sea again.)

“I know you don’t like gifts,” Francis says.

“I do not.”

“But this is special,” Francis finishes with a grin.

Thomas smiles in spite of himself, and his heart skips when Francis kneels with considerable effort before him.

“Goodness, Francis, what is this?”

Francis avoids a direct answer, kissing Thomas’ knuckles in a demure and all-in-all ridiculous manner that shouldn’t have butterflies twisting inside Thomas.

“You hardly need to woo me,” he says. “I’m already yours.”

A toothy grin stretches Francis’ face, and he kisses Thomas’ knuckles again. In his free hand, he holds an oblong box. He runs his thumb along it, a charming shyness making him avert his eyes.

“It caught my eye in a shop window,” he explains. “So I decided to commemorate this year.”

“Well, at least it isn’t an early Christmas gift.”

“No. As a matter of fact, it is an important anniversary.”

Thomas frowns at him. “Is it? You’ve never been one for dates before.”

Francis ignores the protest. “Do you know what today is?”

He waits for Francis to continue, and when he doesn’t, Thomas sniffs with a fond roll of his eyes, thinking back to the morning newspaper.

“The sixteenth of December.”

“And why is that date important?”

“Please just say so. I can’t think what might make today so different.”

Francis rests the box on his lap, as though he were presenting it. “A few years ago now, on the sixteenth of December, a ship in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy arrived in Portsmouth, her small crew nearly doubled by the haggard men she rescued from death. They arrived to much cheering and weeping, and it was an unseasonably warm day, so much so that most of the men—accustomed to their icy prison—were a bit overwhelmed by it all. But it was a happy day, the first of many happy days after far too many sad ones.”

He squeezes Thomas’ knee, and Thomas blinks, oblivious to the tears gathering in his eyes.

“Quite the day, yes,” he murmurs in agreement. “Hard to believe it was so long ago.”

“All the more reason for us to celebrate it.” Here, he opens the box, and a light gasp slips from Thomas. 

The chain is golden and delicately wrought, its links slim and looped together as gently as thread. On one end of the chain hangs a charm in the shape of a ship’s wheel, at the center of which is a tiny opal as blue as the sky.

“Francis, it’s lovely.” He holds the watch chain in his palm, holding it up so that the firelight gleams off the gold. “How much did you—?”

“None of that,” Francis interrupts with a wave of his hand. “I won’t make a habit of such luxuries, but I’ll have you know that you deserve every such nicety in the world.”

He stands, using the table to support himself, and he leans over Thomas and kisses his cheek. Thomas tilts his chin up expectantly, and with a soft laugh, Francis kisses his lips next, lingering to press their foreheads together. He returns to his chair but not before scooting it close enough that their knees bump.

“I don’t even wear a watch,” Thomas says as he sets the chain back into the box.

“That will come next,” Francis assures him. “Once I know I won’t be scolded for buying you one.”

Thomas slaps the back of his hand against Francis’ shoulder but otherwise lets the comment slide. He continues eating while Francis sips his tea, his foot idly rubbing along the inside of Thomas’ calf.

Thomas suddenly thinks to ask: “How did you remember that we returned on the sixteenth?”

Francis purses his lips then grins. “Well, the _day_ doesn’t matter. It’s the occasion—"

“All of that,” Thomas sputters. “That entire story, for what—”

“You wouldn’t have accepted it otherwise!” Francis reaches for Thomas’ hand, holding it between his. “We make our own memories now. Forgive an old man his sentiment.”

Thomas glowers, the heat of which diminishes as Francis seeks his mouth again, deepening it with a gentle touch of his hand on the back of Thomas’ neck. He soon forgets his complaints when all he can hear is the crackle of the fire and all he can taste is his husband on his lips. Outside, snow replaces the evening rain, creeping into Portsmouth as soft as a mouse, and faintly through the streets, the toll of a ship’s bell echoes in tandem with the hush of waves and the song of a lone sailor singing to the night.


End file.
